


I'll Catch You

by unwillingadventurer



Category: Colditz (1972)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28893783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwillingadventurer/pseuds/unwillingadventurer
Summary: Someone from Mohn's past is at Colditz.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	I'll Catch You

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this purely for imagining that Christopher Strauli could be 'cast' as Charlie.

Turning the key in the lock, the guard opened the heavy door and pushed it open. In the light of the entrance, newly appointed second-in-command Major Mohn stood formidably before stepping through into the near dark of the solitary confinement cell. The prisoner stood facing the wall under the window, folding his arms.

“Visitors at this hour?” the man said, still facing the wall with defiance. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Mohn’s lip trembled. There was something familiar in the soft low voice of this British prisoner, something that took him back to days long before the war. In that moment of Mohn’s reflection, the man spun around until he was face to face with the second-in-command. The man’s fair hair was scruffy, his face pale, his eyes red underneath, but Mohn knew that face, recognised the blue eyes and boyish features that were becoming lost to the exhaustion of war and the loneliness of solitary. 

“It’s you,” the young man said, “bloody hell, it’s you.”

He took a step toward Mohn, examining his face and frowning as his eyes scanned the uniform and the collection of medals.

Mohn in return discreetly examined the man he knew, observing his mannerisms and the battered RAF uniform. 

“Charlie Dove,” he said, matter-of-factly as though he were reading the name from a school register.

“Horst Mohn.”

“It’s Major.”

Charlie winced. “It makes me shudder to see you in that uniform.”

“And you in yours.” Mohn paced around him. “So, you’re the escape prisoner?”

“And you’re the second-in-command? I have to say I’m surprised to see you here at Colditz.”

Mohn’s face twitched as he tried to remain quiet. “And I you, Mr. Dove.”

“Why? We’re meant to be captured, aren’t we? Once upon a time we were wasting the day away together.”

“Long time ago, Mr. Dove.”

“You used to call me Charlie. I used to call you Horsey.”

Mohn looked down at the floor and then slowly pushed the door shut, away from the prying eyes and listening ears of Ullman who was hovering outside the cell.

“We were young then,” Mohn whispered. 

“We still are.”

“I don’t wish anyone to know of our connection, it could raise issues here at Colditz and how is it you say…ruffle feathers… within the camp?”

“I see.” He looked again at Mohn’s medals. “Yes, why would a highly-honoured war hero such as yourself want to be associated with an English pilot who has made many escape attempts? We used to play chase when we were young men, now we’re still playing the same game, eh Horst?”

“And chess if I recall.”

“You always were better than me at that, all that strategy stuff.”

Mohn’s lips trembled. “You never were good at following rules.”

“We were young men larking about. Rules weren’t for us then, well not for me anyway. You always seemed to be trying to impress those people. I only wanted to impress you.”

Ignoring him, Mohn looked over at the tatty book that was resting on the table. “You’ve been reading?”

“Not much else to do in here. Read, or think, and thinking leads to reminiscing and I’m not sure I need that right now with you standing here.” Charlie noticed Mohn move awkwardly and sit on the chair stiffly. 

It was obvious to him that Mohn was trying to conceal pain. He also observed the scar under the man’s eye. “You’ve got an injury. That what put you here?” 

Mohn refused to answer as Charlie sat opposite him at the table. 

Charlie looked into Mohn’s eyes. “Bet it eats at you? You hated being the weakest. I always saw the good in you but at times you could be cruel. You used to zone in someone who was better than you and you’d bring them down, but I stuck up for you because my holidays in Germany were great days and those times you came to England were some of my happiest memories. When the war started, I thought of you. I knew it’d never be the same.”

“It rarely is with war.”

“Did you ever think of me, Horst?”

“What good would it do? We are enemies now. You must face facts and stop glamorising a past we can’t return to.”

“You wouldn’t return even if you could. This is you now, isn’t it?”

“I’m the same man.”

“You’re not. He’s gone.”

Mohn’s lip curled and he awkwardly got to his feet. “You’ll be released from the cell in two days’ time. Use the time wisely to consider your actions.”

Charlie sneered. “I’ll do that. And so you know, I don’t want any of the men knowing of our connection either.”

Mohn closed the door and hurried past Ullman and into the corridor where he steadied himself against the wall. He took a large breath and his mind was suddenly filled with memories from long before the war, memories of himself and Charlie. He wished they’d vanish but they persisted like a virus in his body.

Suddenly he was remembering…

…

He was lying on the grass, injury-free, staring up at a sky full of clouds that were changing formation by the moment. Beside him lay Charlie, also staring up, blissful in a friendship that spanned the summer. Their fathers had been friends first but theirs, Horst thought, was the stronger relationship.

“That cloud is a sort of face with a flower behind it,” Charlie said, shaking away a ladybird that flew onto his arm.

“Your eyes must be blurry, it’s a bear.”

“How is it a bear?”

“How can it be a flower? Really, you do think of everything as frivolous things like flowers.”

“Flowers aren’t frivolous,” Charlie said, picking up a daisy. “They’re pretty.”

“My point still stands.”

Charlie sat up and looked down at his friend who now had his eyes shut. “But why can’t things just be pretty?”

“There has to be more. We must be more.”

“I don’t get you sometimes. Do you think I ever will?”

Mohn’s eyes opened. “No, I doubt it. You’re English.”

“I don’t think that’s anything to do with it. Now, beer time methinks. I reckon that’s one thing we do agree on!”

…

In the corridor, Mohn was broken from his daydream by the jangling of a set of keys. He stood to attention as a guard passed and the he too hurried from the cells and back to his office. On the wall the picture of the Fuhrer looked back at him and he wondered whether his leader was proud, wondered whether he was doing the right thing, wondered whether Charlie understood how he needed to do his duty, wondered why his old friend couldn’t understand his motives. He sat down at the desk and began writing into a notebook about the prisoner. He hadn’t even asked him questions yet relating to his escape attempt. How weak of him— how ridiculous to be swept up in nostalgia and a reunion of old friends. He would go back. He would do his duty. He would question him like any other prisoner and he wouldn’t become emotionally involved. 

He looked down at the chess board upon his desk, the pieces lined up in place ready for battle. He closed his eyes softly again and despite his reluctance for a trip down memory lane, his mind drifted there against his wishes and suddenly it was the early 1930’s and he and Charlie were playing chess…

…

They were in a garage in England— Charlie’s father’s place— hidden behind a battered car and using an old wooden crate as a table and drinking cider out of bottles. There was a chessboard on top the crate and their pieces were lined up ready, though Charlie was in no hurry to start.

“Now this is the life,” he said, taking a swig of the cider. 

“Your move, Mr. Dove.”

“It’s Charlie. Mr. Dove is my father.”

“In chess, you’re my opponent not my friend.” He smirked. “Your move, Mr. Dove.”

Rolling his eyes, Charlie shoved him. “Fine, if it makes you happy.” He moved one of the pieces. “You like to be in control, don’t you?”

“I like to do things right, like taking your pieces away,” he said as his hand swiped one of Charlie’s pawns. 

“Oh, playing dirty huh? We’ll see about that.”

“You can’t escape me, Mr. Dove.”

He smiled. “You just watch me try…Herr Mohn.”

…

At Colditz, several days later, Mohn saw Charlie in the courtyard playing sport with the others. He walked discreetly up to him, unkeen for the men to see them conversing in a manner that portrayed they’d once been friends.

“Mr. Dove.”

“Major.”

“Back with your flock?”

“For now. Waiting for the right moment to fly the nest.”

“Flying home, Mr. Dove? You shall never succeed.”

“You said that about my chess once but I beat you.”

“One time.”

“One time is all it takes.”

As Charlie turned away to re-join his comrades, Mohn’s lip wobbled and he too turned away and back to his office. 

…

It was a week or so later when the alarm was raised and another escape attempt had occurred. Mohn was there almost immediately and shone his torch in the darkness. In the light he saw the muddy face of his old friend Charlie, lying back on the ground, looking up at the night sky. He was alive but injured in the attempt. 

“You’re hurt?” Mohn said. There was a brief moment of concern in his voice.

“Can’t feel my legs.”

“You’ll live. We’ll send you to a hospital at once.”

As the other guards had their backs turned, Charlie grabbed Mohn’s arm. “Say it wasn’t a waste, Horst, say our time together was worth it.”

Mohn looked around to make sure no-one was listening. “Get yourself well, Mr. Dove, get yourself well.”

As Charlie was stretchered away, Mohn turned around in the darkness and stood up against the wall, his mind drifting again to days long since passed…

…

He and Charlie were running through a field. Mohn was chasing him through the long un-cut grass that came up to their middles. He finally caught him, threw his arms around his waist and flung him to the ground.

“Told you I could catch you. You can’t run forever.”

Charlie looked up at his captor, smiling at the dark, long, hair that fell into the man’s face. “Don’t count on it.”

“Come on,” Mohn said, pulling him to his feet. “Beer time wasn’t it?”

…

And he was back at Colditz, body and mind, and it was three days later. Charlie was in hospital, serious injuries, never to return to the castle and he was in the courtyard, watching as the men played football, except Simon Carter who was sitting in his deck chair watching from the side-lines. From a certain angle with his fair hair and boyish looks, wearing that blue RAF uniform, Carter almost looked like him but to Mohn he could never be Charlie, he was inferior to Charlie, he was only slightly injured where Charlie was seriously unwell. Even the eyes were staring at him like Charlie did. Charlie couldn’t escape his mind. He felt sick. He felt the man’s presence everywhere he went. And now Carter was there to remind him of it, taunting him with his English ways. 

“Something wrong, Major?” Simon sneered.

“Nothing to concern you, Mr. Carter, nothing at all.”


End file.
